Lord Pendleton Memoirs, Chapter 33
by Kuroneko0489
Summary: Treavor Pendleton recalls his tenth birthday and his brothers' unique gift to him.


Written for CaliforniaStop! Her Treavor Pendleton is in my head, so the one in this story is based off of hers.

Treavor Pendleton's 10th Birthday. He had a bad day.

Poor Treavor.

* * *

**_Lord Pendleton Memoirs, Chapter 33_**

**_On the day of my tenth birthday, my father threw a birthday party - well, a dinner - for me. It was an early meal, starting around five o' clock in the evening, and for some reason my brothers, especially Custis, were being quite amiable toward me - maybe even nice._**

The morning of my tenth birthday, I am more than just a bit apprehensive. Will I get a party this year? The thought keeps pushing itself to the front of my mind. I never get to have birthday parties - only dinners with other lords and ladies I hardly know. But this is my special birthday. My _tenth _birthday. I can feel myself getting older.

At least today I will get some attention from Father. Usually, he is off in his study writing or pacing. Sometimes I try to sneak into the room, just to watch him, but Father always sees me.

"Treavor, I can't deal with you now. I don't have the time. Go play with your brothers or something." Then he shoos me away, as though I am some lowly servant.

I play with Wallace at times, but he is a boring adult and has work to do, and he mostly spends his time with _his_ father, Arthur, who is a servant as well. Sometimes I overhear Arthur bossing the other servants around. I'm glad I'm not a servant.

Usually, I just spend my time reading and writing.

My study is connected to my bedroom, and the walls are lined with shelves full of books and journals. I love shutting myself inside to read books about Pandyssia or to write stories about explorers and their adventures in the jungles of the mysterious continent. My shelves are almost full, and I have completely run out of journals. My imagination blossoms with fantasies, filled with dangerous animals and strange savages. I will defeat them all with my sword, and everyone in Dunwall will want to go on adventures with me. Well, that's how I am in my stories, at least.

I wish I could be brave and go off on adventures, though - as I have been told by Wallace - in order to do that, I must study at a university. I get plenty of education from my tutors as far as I am concerned and have no desire to do more studying than I must. However, it is Father who says that "there are no boundaries for the man with boundless money". Perhaps, I should consider that before I completely give up my future as an explorer.

I believe that in the right circumstances, I will be brave - trudging through the wilds of Pandyssia, putting down savage after savage, until I have conquered the entire continent.

But now, all I can do is write of my future adventures.

My character, Lord Preston Arden, is strong and brave and rich. Everyone loves and admires him. He is perfect and regularly defeats his two evil stepbrothers, humiliating them in every way possible. My favorite story is the one in which Lord Preston intimidates his brothers into wearing dresses to his party after they try to steal his prized painting. He even has them shave their heads and don wigs of gold and brunette, saying that if they do not, he will send them off to Pandyssia to live among the savages and beasts.

Real life is not nearly as rewarding.

The day passes by, and soon I find myself in my room with Wallace helping me into my dress clothes.

"You look very handsome, Lord Pendleton," Wallace says as he helps me put on my jacket.

"Is Father throwing me a surprise party?" I ask Wallace. He would never lie to me.

"I'm afraid not, Lord Pendleton," Wallace replies. "The senior Lord Pendleton-well..." Wallace trails off, but I know what he means. "Remember your posture, Lord Pendleton. You know how upset your fa-Lord Pendleton gets if you wrinkle your clothes."

I nod.

* * *

**_After a rather dull dinner, during which my father insisted I drink an entire glass of wine-this did awful things to my ten year old, body, as you can imagine-I was-accidentally, of course-pushed off my chair by one of the servants, hitting my head on the floor in the process and knocking myself out._**

I arrive at the party, and look around the long table at my guests; of course Father did not think to invite anyone _my_ age. Birthday dinners are so boring, and I wonder why I cannot have a large birthday party with many guests and fireworks as Father and my brothers have.

I bow to each of my guests politely, who nod their heads in return.

"Lord and Lady Estermont," I say. "Lord Graham, Lord and Lady Brisby, Lord and Lady Beauregard, Lord and Ladies Boyle."

The elder Boyle woman, mother of Lord Darwin Boyle, is a frazzled and wrinkled crone, sharp and spindly. She smokes a cigarette in a long holder, as the women used to do when she was young, and none of the guests look particularly happy that she is smoking in the dining room. Lady Estermont coughs from across the table.

"Oh, shut it," Lady Boyle snaps. "There is no need to be so overdramatic. It's just a little-_ack_-smo- _ack_-smoke-_ack_ _ack_ _ack_ _ack_ _ack_."

One of the servants pulls out a chair for me - I get to sit in Father's spot at the end of the table today - and I settle into the plush seat, making sure to sit up straight and raise my chin, as I have been taught.

"Thank you, my dear guests, for joining me to celebrate the day of my birth," I say politely, flourishing my hand in front of me as Father does. The guests clap, and the conversation resumes. I am left to be ignored, as usual.

Father takes my stepmother, Lavinia's, usual place at the other end of the dining room table, and Lavinia sits on Father's right, taking his arm every now and then as they converse. The twins sit on either side of me, staring across the table at each other. Luckily, they ignore me, and their eyes connect, as though they are speaking to each other, but no words come from their mouths. The rest of the guests talk among themselves, giggling and gossiping.

I am a picky eater, so I am not too excited for dinner. Raw oysters - they remind me of slimy, white tongues; egg and lemon soup - I will not even taste it; chef's salad - why would I eat anything that looks like it came straight off a tree? The main course is some sort of baked chicken - it is dry and tasteless - with multicolored rice - it is ice cold-and broccoli, which looks _exactly _like trees. The chef has designed the plates with some sort of dark green and red sauce, creating a pattern of swirls and flowers along the edge of each. I am tempted to use my fork to play with it, but I know Father will reprimand me if he sees. I eye my brothers on either side of me, wondering if they will tell on me.

I decide not to take the chance and sigh instead, leaning on my elbow. Father eyes me from afar, motioning with his face to tell me to remove my elbows from the table.

I find that in these situations, it is best to stay quiet. When I was younger, I would complain if I was bored, even going so far as to ask Father if I could go read in the library. Of course, Father would say "no", and if there were guests over at the time, Father would wait until they left to reprimand me for my rudeness.

At least I do not have to walk around introducing myself to guests, as do my brothers. I can stay silent and invisible in a corner, with guests and servants alike, walking right past me-or sometimes, tripping over me. But that only happened once.

"Well, little one, how old are you turning today?" Lady Brisby sits next to Custis and turns her head toward me. I have met her before, but she has never talked to me. My heart flutters with joy, and I forget myself.

"I'm turning ten," I tell her. She nods, smiling. "I wish I could just have all my birthdays right now, so I could be big and tall, like Father."

"Your father is a very admirable man," Lady Brisby says.

"And he is tall, too - and smart," I add. "One day, when I am older, I will get to make decisions that affect the _whole _empire." I stretch my hands out, accidentally hitting a maid in the belly as she tries to take my plate.

"You were not hungry, little man?" the servant asks me.

"That is Young Lord Pendleton to you," Lady Brisby snaps, shooing the maid away.

"Well," I start. Where was I? "Oh, I will be someone important and tall, too, and big and strong, and everyone will want to talk to me." Lady Brisby nods, sighing loudly.

"And," I continue, "I will have my own ship, so I can sail to Pandyssia any time I want to slay beasts and have adventures. I know _everything_ about Pandyssia. Have you ever read about-" I stop talking as Lady Brisby turns to her husband to join his conversation with the couple across the table. The adults laugh at something, but I do not think it is funny.

"Stop talking like a stupid _child_. You know how to speak to guests. Do not bore them with your childish stories." Morgan eyes me sharply, and I simply nod, realizing my mistake.

"I am sure Treavor will not do it again, will you, little brother?" Custis puts his hand on my shoulder, and I fight the urge to lean away from him. I nod. "What's that?" Custis raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, Custis," I say, in the proper manner.

"Good," Custis replies crisply, turning back to speak to his twin.

With nothing to keep me occupied, once again, I watch the dining room door open and close as the servants file in and out carrying trays cluttered with many dishes. I can hear Arthur bossing them around in the next room, but Wallace is here, carrying an empty tray. I try to catch his eye, but he is distracted.

I follow his gaze, which leads to one of the maids. I've always thought that she looks strange with her curly hair, but Wallace seems to like her. They spend far too much time together, and sometimes I must search the entire manor to find my own servant when he is with her. I see Wallace and the maid's eyes meet, and they both give each other a discrete smile. I feel a lump building in my throat and blink the tears away from my eyes.

How _dare_ he? At my birthday party, no less! How could he be so rude? Look at that... that... I think back to my past vocabulary lessons, but I cannot figure out what to call her.

She is like a _witch,_ casting some sort of spell over Wallace. Why would he like _her _more than _me?_ I am noble; she is just another servant.

_Maybe he likes to be with his own type,_ I remind myself, but I do not believe that Wallace would make such a poor judgment. But what can I do?

They smile at each other again, and I clench my fists, letting my tears drain back into my eyelids. Why won't Wallace smile at _me_?

I do not need Wallace. I am ten, now. I glance at my brothers, though, and realize that I do not feel so grown up. Who will be there to protect me from them?

"Did you hear that some of the poor have gathered in the middle of the city, blaming _us_ for their problems?" Lord Boyle says. His wife next to him utters a disgusted sigh.

"Yes," Father says, shaking his head. "The Pendletons have given them plenty of jobs around the manor and in the mines-"

"They _say_ they're being displaced by slaves." Wallace's maid friend stands by the table, tray in hand.

"E - Excuse me?" Father exclaims.

"I -" The girl's face reddens and she turns, running for the kitchen.

"Why the _nerve_," Lavinia says, putting a dainty hand on Father's shoulder. "You really should fire her, Carlton."

"Yes, yes," Father says, wiping his face with a cloth napkin. "I'll take care of it later."

I feel my heart leap.

"Meaning you will not do it," Lavinia replies. Father gives her a hard stare.

"Lavinia, _darling, _I do not have the time to keep firing and hiring servants. Unless she does something a bit more serious than interrupting our conversation, she will stay."

Lavinia's hand retreats, and she picks up her fork, lightly putting it to her plate.

"Well," Father says, resuming the conversation. "All I'd like to say is that the more you give to those people, the more they want. We are not responsible for their laziness or for their lack of appreciation toward those who would give to them with _nothing _promised in return."

"Well, it's good to know you children are finally learning," the elder Lady Boyle replies. "It's best to let them starve. We've no responsibility for their lives." The other adults nod, but I am bored. I look at my plate, which is still full, but a large hand reaches out from behind me.

"I assume you're ready for cake, Lord Pendleton?" Wallace saves me by taking my plate, and I almost beam at him, but then I remember how rude he has been.

"Yes, Wallace," I say nonchalantly. Wallace takes my plate away, and I sigh.

"Treavor?" Father says. I look up at him. "You must finish your wine before you may have cake."

Usually, either Custis or Morgan - whoever finishes his glass of wine first - will switch with me. I act dismayed when they do it, but secretly, I am glad.

Today, neither Custis nor Morgan have switched with me. I eye the glass of dark red liquid. Wine is made from grapes, I am told, but it tastes _nothing_ like them. I start to pick up the glass with both hands, but then remember my manners and pick it up with one. My little fingers hold onto the glass as well as they can, and I hold my breath, hoping that I will not spill any of it on my clothes.

As I tilt the glass the liquid comes slowly toward me, creeping at first, but then rushing toward the edge. I only manage to take a sloppy sip before setting the glass upright again, and I wince at the wine's taste as I slosh it around my mouth with my tongue. I finally manage to swallow without gagging and stare at the glass. I have a long way to go.

The guests get restless, and Father and Lavinia lead them into the parlor, leaving me at the table with the wine. Wallace stays, watching me from across the room, while pretending to polish some silver, but I ignore him. Is he really going to pick some lowly maid over me? I look straight ahead and work on emptying my glass.

By the time I finish my glass, my stomach hurts, and I am queasy. I stand, finding that I am a bit unstable on my feet. My head swims.

"Do you need some help, my Lord?" Wallace asks me.

"No, Wallace," I snap indignantly, pointing my nose in the air. "I quite think I can manage to walk by myself."

I stagger into the parlor where the guests relax in plush chairs. Custis plays a piece on the harpsichord, and Morgan waits for him to finish, tapping his foot on the carpet.

I catch Lavinia's eye first, but she scowls and looks away.

"Ah," Father says when he notices my presence. "I trust you finished your wine, Treavor?"

I nod.

"Well, then. If I may have your attention, everyone," Father's voice carries steadily throughout the room, and Custis stops playing. "If you would join us in the dining room, again, it is time for us to cut the cake and welcome our little Treavor here to his double-digits."

The guests clap politely and then file into the dining room once more. I have had enough of the room, but I do love cake. Any sweets, really, though I cannot eat too many before I am sick to my stomach. I should do well with one slice of cake, though.

A servant helps me into my spot, and I eye my beautiful cake, covered with swirls of whipped cream. My mouth waters, but my stomach gurgles, reminding me of the unstable liquid sloshing angrily within its walls.

I try to calm myself as the others sing.

_This is your time,_

_your time of the year;_

_At one year older,_

_make your premiere;_

_In our joy for you,_

_we are all sincere;_

_It is your birthday,_

_so everyone cheer._

The others fall silent while the elder Lady Boyle holds out the last syllable with her scratchy voice, her cawing echoing through the room. She cackles, taking a drag of her cigarette, before hacking a few times, and then taking a swallow of her drink.

"You! Boy!" she calls to Wallace, who stands by the threshold. "Another." She waves her glass in the air, making the ice cubes _clank_ against the sides of the crystal, and Wallace politely takes it from her and turns to go refill it. Lady Boyle lightly swats Wallace's bottom, and the servant continues forward, never flinching.

I hate it when adults do that, but I think Wallace is an adult, too. He seems like one. I shake my head, shooing Wallace from my thoughts, and remind myself that I am angry at him.

Lady Boyle giggles sharply as she looks after Wallace. The younger Lady Boyle's face is tight and red, while Lord Boyle simply ignores them both, focusing intently on his drink.

I see Lady Brisby shaking slightly, trying to hold in her laughter while looking across the table at Lord Graham. He smiles back at her, sounding an audible _hmph_.

I am tempted to laugh, suddenly, and my head still swims. I hold it in, and it builds inside my body, but I know Father will be angry with me if I laugh inappropriately. It seems the spirits are against me, though, and Morgan lets out a loud burp.

The table turns silent, and Father rises from his seat.

"Morgan!" he snaps, red faced.

"Sorry, Father," Morgan mumbles, looking across the table at his wide-eyed twin. They smirk at each other, and Custis shakes his head. "It won't happen aga -"

My laughter bursts from my nose as I try to keep my mouth shut, and cloudy goop flies from my nostrils.

This time, it is the twins who hold in their laughter, and I laugh uncontrollably, the horrible singing, the burp, the snot, all adding to my amusement. I know I should not laugh at things like that. Father says that lords only laugh when it is appropriate, but there is something about snot that just makes it so -

"Treavor!" Father's fists clench, and I close my mouth, my laughter having escaped. Father bows to guests. "I am sorry for this. My boys are usually well-behaved." The old woman gasps into her napkin, but the rest of the guests grimace.

"I'm sure they are," Lady Brisby says unconvincingly. "So, surely it won't happen again? I did not come over here to eat and then lose my dinner." Father frowns at her and opens his mouth to reply, but he closes it again and nods.

"Well, let's all have cake, shall we?" He sits, and I relax, wiping my face with my napkin and then leaning back in my chair.

Suddenly, I feel myself falling and gasp; I flail my arms, uselessly trying to sit back up, but the table drops from my vision, and all I can see is the ceiling when I hit the ground, my head smacking against the cold, marble floor with a _thunk_. My whole skull vibrates, as though it will shatter into millions of pieces.

I lay there, my sight blurry and my hearing dull, and stare at the ceiling above. It seems to pulsate with every breath I take, and as my breathing gets louder, it closes in on me, becoming deeper and darker, until there is nothing but blackness.

* * *

**_When I came to, Custis, of all people, volunteered to take me to the infirmary, and he even cleaned and covered my wound himself._**

"Treavor?" I hear a voice, calling me from the depths the hole I am convinced I have fallen into.

"Wall - ace?" I manage to breathe, my voice nothing but a raspy croak. My heart beats heavily in my ears and chest.

"Can you sit up?" There is something unfamiliar about this. I have blacked out many times, only to be awoken with Wallace cradling my head and stroking my cheek with his rough hands. Either that or alone.

But this is not Wallace. The voice sounds younger, and I am tempted to swat at whoever is holding my head. My aching and swelling brain tells me that particular voice means danger.

I open my eyes, hoping that I am wrong, but there is a face above mine - upside down.

"C - C - " I start. _Custis?_

No, it could not be him. I blink my eyes a few times, but still, the face hovers above mine.

"He's awake," Custis says, looking straight into my eyes. He looks like a doctor examining a patient. "I'll get him cleaned up."

Someone is cackling from far away.

"_Mother_, really," I hear. The gritty laugh grows stronger.

"No -" That must be Father. "Let the servants take care of that. Wall -"

"I'm his _brother_, Father. It is Treavor's birthday. _Surely_, he does not want some simple servant taking care of him today."

There is silence on Father's end, but Custis gives a short nod.

"Morgan," he calls. "Help me with him."

And my twin brothers, Morgan and Custis, one a bit taller than the other, take me by the arms and walk me to the infirmary. A bout of laughter erupts from the dining room as soon as we leave.

I try to stop myself from walking, wishing that I had the courage to simply collapse on the floor, making my brothers drag me. I know what will happen once I am alone with them. Ten years of living with the twins has taught me some lessons.

I stay silent and walk with them, though. Resisting will only make them hurt me more.

We arrive at the infirmary, and the twins pick me up, lightly sitting me on a table. I find myself shivering, waiting for the pain to come, because I _know_ the twins will take advantage of our privacy.

I breathe slowly, trying to keep myself calm, and Morgan leaves the room, closing the door lightly behind him.

Oh no, I have been left here, _alone_, with Custis.

Custis fishes for bandages and bottles, occasionally squinting his eyes to read a label.

"I tell you, Treavor. We _do _need to get a better nurse who knows how to organize. This is positively ridiculous."

I study my brother's face, noting the red pimples on his skin. They have started to fade, though a few years ago, one would have thought that both twins would be spotted forever.

I find myself wanting to be older. I know that once I get older, I will not be scrawny and weak any more. Though they have always been stronger than me, Morgan and Custis grew significantly taller in the past few years, and now my brothers tower over me, like giants.

Custis approaches me, setting a few bottles and other items on the table.

"There's not much bleeding," he says to me, examining the back of my head. He reaches for a bottle and opens it. "I wanted to talk to you about something, Treavor, and this seems like a good moment to do so." He dabs something on the back of my head, and I nearly jump.

_It's the pain! It's happening! What will he do to me?_ My mind jumps instead, flooding my head with all sorts of panicked thoughts, but then...

_I know this feeling. I've felt it every time I've needed a scrape or cut - or burn or gaping gash - cleaned and bandaged. _

Custis sees me wince.

"Sorry, Treavor," he says. "I'm sorry for hurting you."

"That didn't hurt," I say, but the tremble in my voice gives me away.

He tilts my head up with a finger and studies my eyes, his gaze flitting from the right to the left, and then his eyes meet mine.

"Let's be friends from now on. How would you like that? All brothers should be friends."

I cautiously study Custis's face. Does he mean what he says? I feel as though I am dreaming. My brother who, along with his twin, has tormented me for years wants to be friends, now?

I nod, and he raises his eyebrow, giving me a slight grin.

"Good."

* * *

**_Now, I was growing quite suspicious of my brothers' behavior, but all that was forgotten when I opened my gift from the twins. It was a journal, which I loved, but Father was not too happy with it._**

My head is clean and bandaged, and Custis and I join the others in the dining room, where the conversation dies down as soon as we enter. Dessert has almost ended, and my cake has been cut and mostly eaten. I study the faces of my guests. Most either ignore me, concentrating on their slices of cake, or give me looks of sympathy and fake concern. The senior Lady Boyle has a grin on her face, and she snickers openly as she looks me up and down. By the look on Father's face, I can tell that my clothes look awful.

"Well, Treavor, sit down so you can open your gifts," says Father, heading toward my end of the table.

Most of the gifts are useless - ornate boxes and statuettes, books of political history and geography, gold cufflinks, candies of all sorts, a painting by some artist, rare crystals from Pandyssia, and - from Father - a small, silver spoon with my name and age to go with my collection of silver spoons he gives both my brothers and me for our birthdays every year. I set all of it aside.

"Now ours," Custis says, handing me my gift.

The twins stand in front of me, smiling as I open the velvet box. It is smooth with gold-lined pages and a black leather exterior.

"Leave it up to you two to get him something useless," says Father. "Why did you not just have the servants get something the last time I sent them out?"

"No, I like it," I say, holding the journal out in front of me. Father sighs.

"That is no gift fit for someone of your status. If you wanted a journal, you should've asked me."

_I did, and you said I should have plenty of journals left_.

"Sorry," I say to Father.

"Was that the last one?" The elder Lady Boyle caws from across the table. I catch a glimpse of Father's face as he rolls his eyes before turning back toward the table.

"Yes," he says, smiling politely. "We can all head back to the parlor for drinks, or -"

"I have plenty to drink in my own parlor," says the elder Lady Boyle. She stands, heading for the door, and the other Boyles follow, nodding politely.

"Happy Birthday, er, Trevin," says the old woman before disappearing into the foyer.

"Thank you, Lord Pendleton. We had a wonderful time," says Lady Boyle.

"Happy Birthday to you, young Lord," Lord Boyle tells me.

The other guests follow the Boyles' cue, heading back to their own manors.

* * *

**_After the guests left, I was apprehended by the twins, who said they had something for me in the woods._**

The wine will not settle in my stomach, and I feel as though I am about to vomit; I clench my fists, trying to calm my nausea.

"Come on." Custis and Morgan appear behind me, taking me by the hands. "We're going on a trip," Custis tells me. "You'll like it."

I follow my brothers, but they pull me toward them until I have one twin on each side. The fresh air calms my stomach a bit. Custis smoothes my hair with his hand.

"My poor little brother - you're such a mess!" he chuckles.

I want to believe that this is true. I really do, and maybe it is.

"Why are we out here?" I ask.

"To get your present," Morgan replies casually.

"But, you already gave me -"

"Of course that wasn't your actual present," Custis says. "You don't really think we would give you something as stupid as a journal." I frown, my excitement dulled, but intrigue creeps into the corners of my mind.

"Your real present is out here," says Morgan.

"Yes, we didn't want the pup- the gift to be found. It can be quite noisy at times."

"A pup?" I exclaim, and Morgan shushes me while Custis scans the area. The sun has almost gone down, and we have no lanterns with us, so I doubt we will be seen. "Let's go," I say, pulling each of my brothers' hands, completely forgetting the people they are.

"We're headed to one of the sheds on the other side of the woods," says Custis. The woods are dark and deep, and I shiver.

"We have to go in _there_?"

"Are you _scared?_" Morgan taunts.

"No!" I say, willing my body into rest.

"Don't worry, little Treavor. You'll have your brothers with you, and we won't let any animals or ghosts or monsters or whatever you believe in at your age," Custis waves his hand. "Get to you."

"I'm _ten_ years old. I don't believe in ghosts or monsters," I say, trying to make my voice as big as I can.

"I'm impressed, Treavor," Custis says. "Soon, you won't even need your brothers to protect you."

I grin at that.

* * *

**_Foolishly, I let my guard down and naively followed my brothers into the woods. There, they pushed me into a crude, wooden box, nailing the top down and trapping me inside. Once I heard the earth falling onto the wood above my head, I realized what my brothers meant to do with me._**

We continue forward, soon reaching the edge of the forest, and I follow them into the darkness.

"Sssshhh!" Custis waves his hand, beckoning me to the right. Morgan goes left, and we hide among the trees.

"What's going on?" I whisper to Custis, but my brother has already run ahead, disappearing into the thick foliage.

I am alone.

"Custis?" I call. "Morgan?" The woods seem to turn darker, and the air around me fills with sound - chirping, howling, and other unknown noises. Something screams far off in the distance, sounding like a frightened woman. My legs start to shake.

"Custis!" I call again. "Please, come back. This isn't funny." I creep forward, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

_Be brave,_ I tell myself. _Like... Preston Arden._

Yes! I'll pretend that I'm Lord Preston Arden, sneaking through the thick jungles of Pandyssia. He wouldn't be afraid.

I am Lord Tr- Preston Arden, lord by day, and explorer by night. I am here in the wilds of Pandyssia hunting the rare... _twinheaded hornoceros_. It is an animal that is known to split itself into two, tricking the foolish who try to follow it. But I am no fool. The hornoceros will creep up behind me as I hunt its twin.

I dart behind a tree, looking forward and back. Nothing. The hornoceros is very intelligent and will not be found easily.

I listen for footsteps or voi-animal calls that could indicate the hornoceros's position and hear light footsteps approaching.

The hornoceros approaches! The footsteps grow louder, but they are behind me now.

I wake from my fantasy, my body warning me of the _real_ threat behind me, and before I can react, I feel pain.

"One!"

I scream, falling forward onto the hard ground. There is dirt and blood in the palms of my hands, and I try to turn.

"Get up, you little shit!" Morgan says. He hits me on the back with a branch. I try to stand and run, but Morgan is quicker.

"Two!" I am back on the ground, my bottom throbbing from Morgan's hard kick.

"Stop it!" I cry. Morgan continues to whack me with the branch, and I see a figure approach out of the corner of my eye. Custis grabs my sides, hauling me back onto my hands and knees.

"One!" he says.

"Get up!" yells Morgan. I don't need to be told again.

"Two!" Custis kicks me again.

They continue to kick me, and I stifle my cries, waiting for them to finish. It will be over soon, I tell myself, sucking in a trembling breath.

The twins reach ten, and I collapse to the ground, my arms and legs shaking.

"Aw, poor Treavor," Custis taunts. I hold in my bitter tears, sniffling. "You look so tired. Maybe you should get some rest." I try to ignore him, but soon I find myself being hoisted from the ground.

"Let me go!" I scream, kicking uselessly at the air. I try to squirm from the twins' grasp, but they hold me tightly. I cannot see where they are taking me, but it is not far.

"Goodnight, little Treavor," Custis says. "Really, we should've just done this earlier, but what can I say? It makes me laugh when you squeal and cry-you sound like a pig, ready to be slaughtered." The twins laugh, and suddenly I am falling.

My arms reach out in all directions, trying to grab onto _something_, but I hit the ground, grunting from the impact. The ground is hard. I feel it with my fingertips and look up at my brothers.

I am in a hole.

I am in a wooden box-in a hole.

"Have a nice rest, little brother," Custis says, waving with dark glee. Morgan mimics him, giving me a hard smirk.

"No!" I say, trying to sit up, but the twins slide a heavy slab of wood over my head, and soon I hear pounding above. "No!" I cry. I hit the wood with my fists, screaming and crying all at once. "Let me out!" Soon, I am past words, and I weep.

* * *

**_Yes, on the day of my tenth birthday, my cruel brothers buried me alive, with no intention of digging me up. I thought I was going to die, but I kept on living and swallowed my fear. I knew that if I was strong enough, then I would survive._**

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!" I don't think I have ever screamed so loudly in my life, but I can't stop. It's a mixture of both screaming and crying, and tears run down my face, tickling my face and pooling in my ears and beside my head. I cough and sniffle, and the mucus running from my nostrils only makes me even more miserable. My clenched fists hit the wood above me, but it is no use. I can hardly even knock loudly enough, as my arms are weak and rubbery.

I let out a high whine, giving up and resting my arms by my sides. I cannot see anything, but my eyes burn from the tears, adding to the harshness of the hardness below me.

They'll find me, I assure myself. Custis and Morgan will dig me up once I'm scared enough. They want to laugh at how much of a baby I'm being.

I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to squeeze my tears back into my eyes. I'm ten now, I tell myself. I can't be a baby.

What if they don't come for me? The terrifying thought shoves its way to the front of my mind.

Father will come looking for me; that thought is even more unlikely than my brothers returning to dig me up. Father wouldn't even notice I was missing until my next birthday.

I won't last until then.

What will kill me off first? Thirst? Hunger? No.

I'll run out of air first. I'll suffocate.

I'm going to die in here. I'm going to _die_ in here.

Most children do not think about death, but having been near death before, I cannot help but imagine my body rotting away until it is nothing but bones. Lord Treavor Pendleton will be nobody - forgotten and lost by time.

I realize suddenly that I did not even get to have any cake, and I feel my face turn hot as tears run from my eyes. I did not even get a slice of my own birthday cake. Nobody cared. Not even Father.

Is this what other families are like? Do parents ignore their children, leaving them to fend for themselves? Do brothers torture their youngest siblings? Wallace always reminds me that I was born into privilege and have certain responsibilities as a member of the nobility, but I cannot help but think that I was born into nothing but bad fortune. And it is not fair.

Wallace... I want to see Wallace! But now _he_ won't even miss me, now that he has his maid friend. He likes spending time with her much more than he enjoys our time together, and with me gone Wallace will be relieved. He can see her without me running to him crying because my brothers hurt me or because I am simply sad. He will not have to hear any more of my stories.

Perhaps I am right where I should be.

Still, it fills me with despair. I do not want to die alone and forgotten. I want to see my books and my journals, I want to lie in my soft bed, I want to walk through the garden. I won't even tell Father what the twins did to me. I won't tell anyone-I promise.

I cannot see anything, but I can feel the sides of the box pressing against my arms.

I feel as though the darkness will swallow me whole, the earth surrounding me gradually squeezing me into an invisible whisper, lost underground with the earthworms, tree roots, and of course, the dead.

The time passes. it must be daytime by now. I've been here for hours. I open my eyes, and what do I see? I can see birds flying in the bright blue sky. I reach up to touch them, but I only jam my finger on hard wood. The birds morph into faces-Father, Lady Boyle, Lavinia, Morgan, Custis, Wallace... He stares at me gravely, telling me, "This is what you deserve." How could I ever believe that my brothers would suddenly start to like me? I am a fool.

Wallace's face turns into something monstrous, and I close my eyes, but he is still there under my eyelids, clear as day, but unreachable as the sky. I run from him.

I find myself in a house and walk through door after door, seeing my memories. The doors morph and warp, changing places until I am lost, and my memories blend together. Morgan and Custis kick a pony - no, they kick me. I run to my room, crying, but the twins are there as well. They are angry that I told Father about what they did to the maid, and Morgan is the first to strike, his fist hitting my ear. Warm liquid flows from the side of my head, and I wince. He hits me in the nose, now, and more blood flies from me, out of my nostrils and into the air. But instead of dropping, it stays there, dancing as red swirls on my ceiling. The blood grows and wanes, making beautiful shapes - symmetrical and yet foreign. And then comes the music, and blood dances gracefully to the tune, taking quick little steps when the flute plays and then becoming thick and heavy - sludge dragging itself along the ground, as the bass calls out. The violin and viola are crimson waves, weaving around and through everything. It is so beautiful.

I want to breathe the clear, fragrant, air of the garden. Yes, the garden. I can see it, and now I am there, surrounded by colors. And the music still floats through the air, streaming between my ears. The flowers sway back and forth to the tune and start to grow, reaching toward the bright sky.

Morgan and Custis appear behind me, and I turn as they approach, but they simply stand silently as the flowers behind them dance. Their cold eyes are enough to make me shiver, but they make no attempt to hurt me.

"I just want to know why," I say to them. "Why would my own brothers try to kill me?"

The twins answer in one voice.

"Because you killed our mother."

Then they sky turns gray and the flowers grow, closing in on me, and the music grows louder and more terrible, and the flowers reach for me with their clawed leaves. The petals wither and die, crumbling as they hit the ground and leaving nothing but a stem with gnashing teeth and long claws. They snap at me, hissing like snakes - no, the snakes!

They are vipers, twisting their way around my limbs and body, squeezing my bones and biting my flesh. Still, I can hear the music, now nothing but a harshly melodic cacophony, and I feel as though my eardrums will burst.

"No," I hear myself say. "No! Turn it off!" I cover my ears, but the noise is loud as ever, and I realize that it is my own screams that join in with it.

I pound at the barrier above my head. I _need_ to get out of here.

"Let me out!" I yell, my voice cracking. My throat is dry and burnt, and my screams have turned hysterical, like a fox's yelp.

It will get me. I know the darkness will get me if I stay here. Please, I don't want it to get me! My face is soaked, as liquid runs from my eyes, nose, mouth - I do not even care anymore. I weep as I have _never_ wept before, and I feel myself becoming light headed.

I am running out of air. I suck in each breath, feeling as though there is never enough to breathe, and my heart pounds in my ears. I am losing control of my body, and soon I will fall asleep. It will just be like falling asleep. Frantic tears run from my eyes as I try to comfort myself, but I cannot be calmed. My breathing is fast and shallow, and I whine and gasp.

_No, not yet. Not yet._

There is sound. Pounding. Is this it?

I hear rumbling above me; the earth moves. Then, it hits me.

The air.

It is fresh and cool, and I tremble and sniffle as I am lifted out of my grave.

* * *

**_Some time later, I was dug up again by Wallace and another servant, and my Father and brothers waited for me on the surface. Father was furious and demanded to know who buried me-he never thought to ask me if I was alright. Nobody answered, so he turned to me. _**

**_He asked me who did it, and I replied - Dammit, Wallace! Why is this glass empty? I have to wet my lips while I'm recording. Do you want me to sound like a dried-up frog? You know it's important for this glass to stay filled while I'm writing my memoirs!_**

"Treavor!" I hear. "Treavor, what in the Outsider's name happened?" Someone is shaking me by the shoulders, but soon he lets go.

"Father," I croak. My voice is all but gone.

"What _happened?_" Father's face is red as it closes in on me.

"I - I -"

"Go on..." Father steps back, folding his arms in front of him.

I study him for a moment, and soon the tears are back. He's _angry_.

"I - it wasn't my f-fault," I cry.

"What am I supposed to tell everyone, hm?" says Father. "The servants _talk_, and soon every high-born family from here to the Legal District will know that my son allowed himself to be buried alive."

"But I -"

"Quiet!"

I look down, sniffling.

"You look me in the eye _right_ now, son." Father's face is eerie in the dark, illuminated by nothing other than a lantern. I tilt my head upward, meeting his gaze. All I want to do is run to my room and hide under the covers. Father's eyes are cold and gray. Is there any love behind them?

He takes me by the collar.

"Today we celebrated your tenth birthday, and do you know what that means?" I shake my head. "You are growing up, and you cannot allow yourself to be victimized. You're a _Pendleton_, damn it!"

Tears fall from my eyes, and I struggle to keep my composure.

"In all my years, I have never seen a Pendleton as pathetic as you. You will live up to your name, or I will take it from you. Do you understand?"

No, I do not. How can Father take my name from me? I nod anyway, swallowing the runoff from my nose that has collected in my throat. I cough.

"Now, tell me who did this to you, and I will have them promptly-" he stops. "Well, they will be punished. Severely."

Do I dare tell the truth? Do I dare tell Father that his two precious sons, the ones he loves, did this to me?

"It was..." I say it quietly, and my voice trembles.

"Yes?" Father waits for me to continue.

"It - it -" I take a deep breath. My brothers will truly kill me if I tell on them. They could throw me off of the roof, and Father would not even care. I can imagine him at my funeral-angry.

"He's sullied the Pendleton name," I hear him say. "Jumping from the roof. I can hear the others talking. _Damn_ him."

Father has always simply put up with me - buying me all the luxuries for which a young lord could ask, but never has he spent time with me as he spends it with Custis and Morgan. Never has he tucked me in at night or read me stories. He can spend the whole day teaching Custis about the family business or showing Morgan how to fence, and when their time is over, they arrive looking as though they have been best friends for their entire lives.

Why can I not have that?

I _can_ have it. I simply must be more like my brothers! Then Father will love me.

Suddenly, I know what to say. I point to Wallace's servant friend.

"It was her" I tell Father, looking him straight in the eye. "The servant with the really curly hair. She did it. I caught her stealing jewelry from yours and Lavinia's room. She - I think she is a _witch_. She took me by the arm and suddenly, I was here in the woods. I couldn't move. Then she threw me in the grave and buried me so that I would not tell on her.

"I've heard her late at night, chanting as she walks upstairs to the servants' quarters. I'm sorry for not telling you before, but I didn't think you would believe me." Now, my head droops to the ground, and I wait for Father's reply.

"Oh, yes," he whispers. "I certainly _do_ believe in witches. I -" I look up at him. He looks as though he wants to say more, but he shifts his focus. "Well, the girl is a thief at least, and if you believe her to be a witch, I will send a letter to the Abbey first thing in the morning."

"No, please -" the servant starts. "Wallace, don't let them do this to me. I - It was..." she trails off as Wallace puts a hand on her shoulder, but he says nothing.

"You found him?" Custis walks up behind Father with Morgan at his side.

"Yes, boys," Father says, gesturing briefly at me.

"Oh, good," Custis says, angelically. "How we would have missed him if he had disappeared." He clasps his hands together, and Morgan glares at me, his eyes dark. I know what that look means.

"That maid," Father says. "Her, with the curly hair. Have you noticed anything strange about her, boys?"

The maid shakes her head.

"Like what?" asks Morgan, but Custis catches on quickly.

"Oh, yes, she's such a _strange_ woman. I've heard that she is part _Serkonan_. Is _she _to blame for this?" I wince at his obviously feigned innocence. He really should be more subtle, as I am when I must tell a lie, but luckily, Father will believe almost anything the twins say. Especially Custis.

"That is what Treavor says, and I have my suspicions as well." Father steps toward the maid. "How did you know where Treavor was?" He waits for her to answer.

"I - I -" she stutters, tears running down her face. She looks to my brothers. "I don't know." Her head drops, hanging toward the ground, and she continues to cry.

"Wallace, I hope you had nothing to do with this," Father says, pointing at the servant.

"Of course not," Wallace says gravely. His face remains blank.

"Please, just fire me," she says between sobs. "I am not a witch. Please don't call the Overseers."

Father turns without a word.

"You see what happened to Treavor, boys?" Father asks. The twins glance from the open grave to me and then back to Father.

"Yes, I think I can piece it together, Father," answers Custis.

"Good," Father replies. "So don't you two _ever_ go getting yourself into any situations like this. Do you hear me? I suppose we should expect this from little Treavor, but _never_ from you two. No Pendleton will ever be a victim."

"Yes, Father," the twins say together.

"We would _never_ do that," Custis adds.

"Well, let's all go inside. It's freezing out here." Father steps forward once again, and we follow him with the servants behind us. But as I stare at his back, he utters one more sentence.

"I cannot bring myself to believe that you are _my_ son."

* * *

"Take a bath and go to bed, Treavor. Your clothes are ruined." Father studies me up and down as we stand in the foyer. Wallace and the maid disappeared during our walk back to the manor, but I do not think Father noticed.

I glance at the grandfather clock, realizing that I have been gone for no more than an hour and a half.

_But it felt as though I was there for at least a day,_ I nearly blurt out to Father, but I manage to keep my mouth shut. I am in no mood to talk back.

I still remember the sensation of my brother attacking me from behind and the sudden terror that came with it. I was powerless against them and then against something as simple as a plank of wood and some dirt.

I shiver as I head up the stairs, and Father calls to me.

"And remind Wallace to clean your room tomorrow. It's a mess."

I almost don't hear him, but his words finally process in my brain. My room is _not _a mess. I may have some books and pens scattered in various places, but it is not filthy.

I figure it is another way for Father to insult me.

I finally make it up to my room. My bed looks so comfortable, and I want to collapse in it, but then I remember the journal, and all I want to do is get rid of it.

One of the maids probably put it away. I open the door to the next room and turn on the lantern-

This is not my room. No, it _can't_ be.

I take a moment, staring blankly at the floor. I don't understand.

Paper has been scattered everywhere, torn into pieces, each edge sharp and angry. My breathing is fast and shallow as I study the damage. My shelves are empty, and all the paper on the floor...

I can see my handwriting on some of the pages, and on others is printed ink. My books, my stories. I pick up a crumbled piece, wedging it between my fingers. All that I have ever created was within these pages. What am I now but weak? Tears fall from my eyes, once again.

But, maybe Father's right. Maybe I am not supposed to write. I am a lord, a _Pendleton, _and I must do better at being one. I have been born into nobility, and I have responsibilities that come with my title. Yes. I shove the idea into my brain, willing it to stay. I am a lord. I am important. I have no use for pointless books and journals.

But still, death fills the room. It is destruction and chaos. The paper reminds me of bodies torn from limb to limb and then dropped carelessly on the ground with no respect or reverence for what they are or were.

Could this all be a dream? I think back, going through the day in my mind, focusing on the ease with which I laughed at dinner. None of it seems funny anymore. That's because it wasn't. It isn't.

I should not care about these pieces of paper, I remind myself. I am not a boy anymore. I am growing up, and it is time that I gave up my childhood stories. I no longer need dreams, because I know exactly what I will be when I grow up - a Pendleton. _Lord _Treavor Pendleton.

This time, the thought settles a bit more easily.

I turn, ignoring the mess and shutting the door tightly behind me, and I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm myself, but my stomach heaves. The wine, its taste sharp and bitter, explodes from my mouth, falling onto my shoes and soaking into the floor, looking like partially congealed blood. I cough and wheeze, struggling to breathe as the liquid climbs its way up my throat. It seems to go everywhere, splattering on my clothes and on the nearby furniture. I feel my eyes tear up, and I blink the water from them as I bend over again to let the rest of the liquid empty from my stomach.

I hold myself up with my arms, leaning on my thighs, and breathe, letting myself cough a bit more. Once I stand, wiping the tears and vomit from my face, I realize that my stomach has settled. I think I feel better now. Yes, now I am fine.

* * *

"You'll feel better once you get some sleep." Wallace kneels on the ground in front of me, buttoning the front of my pajamas, his breath tickling my chin every time he exhales. We are about the same height at the moment, and he makes eye contact with me. If he is angry about me getting his girlfriend fired, he does not show it. He is the same as always - patient, dedicated, and attentive to detail, and his hands are nimble and skilled, fastening each button on my shirt with ease. He smoothes out my collar and runs his fingers through my hair, looking me over briefly before standing.

"All ready?" he asks. I nod, and he picks me up, holding me in one arm, and sets me lightly on my bed. It is a very large bed - meant for two adults, at least - but Wallace always manages to set me right in the middle, knowing that I do not like to be near the edges; I am prone to thrashing about in my sleep and have more than once awoken on the ground with a bloody lip or nose.

Wallace slides the covers over me, and I wait for him to tuck me in, but he turns instead.

"My Lord?" he asks. "If I may..." He slides a small, flat package from the pocket of his jacket and hands it to me. It is wrapped in simple paper, held together with a bow of twine. "Your birthday present, my Lord," he says, bowing. I nod my head, giving him as polite a smile as my tired face will let me.

"Why, thank you, Wallace," I say, handling the simple package. I find myself wondering if all the common folk wrap their gifts this way, but I am too tired to keep the thought in my head for long. I am ready to open the gift and go to sleep.

"Because this is such a special age for you, I wanted to get you something. I hope that you are not insulted by the crudeness of the wrapping paper," Wallace tells me.

"Not at all. Is was very considerate of you to think of me, Wallace." I open the package carefully, as I have been taught, making sure not to tear the paper. I open the brown paper to more brown-leather this time. It is simple, tanned leather used by the common folk, and inside are rough pages-paper tan and speckled and rough to the touch. My eyes light up.

"A journal?" I say. "That's-that is very nice of you, Wallace." I squeeze the leather journal in my hands.

"Of course, my Lord," Wallace replies. "I always do the best I can for you. I know that it is hardly what you deserve. It's a simple, ugly thing, but I -" he pauses. "Well, I thought that despite its harshness, you would be able to use it." My eyes tear up, and I feel a lump forming in my throat. Wallace has seen me cry before, but I do not want to cry over a notebook, even in front of him. I put the journal on my nightstand.

"Thank you, Wallace," I say, laying back down in my bed. Wallace tucks the covers tightly over me and under the sides of my body so that I am wrapped in their softness.

"Goodnight, Lord Treavor," Wallace says, extinguishing my lamp. He gives me a kiss on the forehead before turning toward the door.

"Wallace?" I call. The servant turns back to me. "Goodnight to you, too."

Wallace bows, closing the door lightly behind him, and I feel the tears return, for I did not tell him what I truly wanted to say.

The journal sits atop the nightstand, and I can see its silhouette in the darkness. I am feeling restless and am suddenly uneasy about having the covers wrapped so tightly around me.

_As though I am wrapped in my death shroud,_ I think to myself. Where _do _I get such morbid thoughts?

I wriggle my little body from underneath the covers and jump from my bed, taking the notebook toward my fireplace.

I catch glimpses of it as the firelight flickers, and I can feel the leather under my fingers, rough with scratches. My tears are back, and I hug the journal, trying to shove from my mind the thought of what lies behind the door of the next room - nothing.

I let my tears slide down the journal's exterior, ruining the already damaged leather. I do not care. Suddenly, the book in my arms feels heavy and hard, and I stare at it blankly.

What am I to do with it? Do I write in it as usual, simply forgetting all of my work that has been destroyed? I find myself wondering what good will come of it-I will write and write, until I am old, never getting the chance to do anything else but write. I am nothing like Lord Preston Arden - I am neither brave nor clever. I am a coward and a child, just as I will always be. No matter how much I write, I will never be that strong character, who everyone roots for-the hero. I will not even be the villain - I will simply be the small man hiding in the corner as the hero and the villain fight their battles. A small man, who happens to have a title before his name. A small man, who is dressed very nicely. Never will anyone notice, though, because a small man is a small man.

It is the most beautiful journal I have ever gotten, and on each page is Wallace's name, but the journal sits uselessly in my palms, and my tears have turned bitter and hot. Lies and betrayal are all I will find within its pages - lies most of all. I throw my arm back, bringing it forward rapidly, and release the journal from my fingers, letting it flip into the fire. Water flows freely from my eyes, now, and I watch through blurry eyes as the fire runs over the leather and paper, turning them bright orange and then black. Bits of paper fly into the air, eaten away as they ignite. The journal, in all its flawed beauty, seems to call back to me, wondering _why?_ It is not the journal's fault, but I cannot keep it. No, Wallace is not within the pages, I try to convince myself. There is nothing for me inside that journal.

Now, there will be no more lies. This is my life - cold and lonely, and if I am wise, I will remember that. If I am wise, then I will sit here and wait, until it is truly my time to be closed, forever, in a coffin - and buried underground.

I am as blank as the journal - as ruined as the many notebooks once filled with stories, only to be torn into a jumble of words - chaos, never to make any sense ever again.

I will burn them all in the morning. Then, there will truly be nothing, and I will feel nothing-they are just pieces of bound paper, after all. Nothing special.

I _am _special. I am _Lord Treavor Pendleton_.


End file.
